


A veritable mountain of trees

by Alexander_Writes



Series: Concerning An Important Conversation [2]
Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy, Skulduggery Pleasant - Fandom
Genre: Angst, First war against Mevolent, Gen, Hey Erskine - let's talk about stuff so you don't repress it and become evil! Is that a good idea?, If communication occurred between the Dead Men, Nonbinary Character, Oneshot, Possible Alternate Universe, Saracen POV, all feedback welcome, queer banter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:29:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23155597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexander_Writes/pseuds/Alexander_Writes
Summary: “I waited for you,” Erskine says, and Saracen’s eyes open properly as his stomach drops. “I waited for over a month, months, I don’t know. You said you’d come but you never did ..."Trekking through a forest somewhere in France, the Dead Men approach a difficult conversational topic. Set prior to A Mutual Dislike of Winter.
Series: Concerning An Important Conversation [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1666825
Kudos: 11





	A veritable mountain of trees

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for checking this fanfiction out.
> 
> Please note that Hopeless is not representative of any gender identity/group or experience. If you are concerned about their portrayal let me know and I will make any necessary changes.

“Tell me again why, exactly, we are going through this forest?” Saracen asks.

It’s not that Saracen dislikes the exercise; of course not. But the eight of them have been trekking through this veritable mountain of trees for three days now, without contact with the enemy or with villages, without contact from anyone, in fact. Their food has even been warm as the elementals have a way to disperse smoke without giving away the group’s presence. The ground is dry, the trees rustle with light breeze, and there haven’t been any large carnivores attacking them during the night. This is quite possibly the least stressful beginning to any Dead Men mission, and there are eight of them this time. Perhaps he shouldn’t be complaining.

Erskine glances sidewards at him and Dexter smiles with a bowed head. Ahead, Skulduggery and Ghastly are talking quietly. Larrikin is humming to himself beside Anton and Hopeless. Saracen scowls at all of them and their nonchalance, and Hopeless turns to him and smiles. They don’t bother to say anything, though. Even Larrikin ignores him rather than launching into a series of lighthearted complaints. Saracen’s foot catches on a log and Erskine hooks an arm around his elbow and hauls him back on his feet. 

“You should have known that was there, you know,” Dexter murmurs.

“Shut up,” Saracen says. Be fair to him; he’s been walking for days and the light is dimming. 

“Did you really ignore everything Corrival said during the briefing?” Erskine asks, with a raised eyebrow. “Too distracted by my presence, I assume.”

Hopeless smothers their laughter and Larrikin at last spins around. The fact that he maintains his bounding energy isn’t something Saracen respects. It just makes him feel worse, makes his feet and legs ache more. Yes, had Larrikin lost his enthusiasm Saracen would be desperately concerned, but he is also allowed to resent his resilience.

This place is much too quiet and he doesn’t know why.

“Obviously it was my manly beauty that distracted him!” Larrikin says. “Come now, Erskine.”

Erskine’s mouth twitches and he eyes Larrikin deliberately and doubtfully. Larrikin screws up his nose. He is the shortest of them all, with auburn hair and shining eyes. There’s something about him that makes one think of a cat, small and wicked and playful. But if Larrikin is a cat, then Erskine is a lion … no, a lioness. There’s something dangerous in the man’s beauty, something arresting. Erskine is the one that attracts the most attention in any public space, as long as he’s not in the presence of the walking skeleton.

“Well?” Erskine asks, and Saracen realises after a pause that he’s being talked to. “Which one of us was responsible for your distraction?”

“I’m sorry to disappoint,” Saracen says. “But it was neither of you. Isn’t that right, Ghastly?”

Ghastly turns and grins. “I knew you couldn’t resist my masculine charms any longer.”

“I’m no competition, am I?” Larrikin bemoans.

“Should I be jealous?” Erskine asks.

“Only if you don’t like sharing,” Skulduggery says.

This joke wouldn’t have gone down so well a month ago. They would have maintained the banter, of course, but a comment on Erskine’s presence would have been a sharp reminder of his year-long absence. When Erskine had first returned they’d all been visibly anxious whenever he was not in their line of sight. Hopeless, who been hit hard by their closest friend’s supposed death, was only now relaxing. Before they’d always stood close to him, and Erskine had sought out their company less obviously but just as desperately. But now they can joke, and laugh, and their constant tension is slipping back to normal levels.

Soon the eight of them will be able to discuss what actually happened beyond Erskine’s report. There is something he refuses to mention, and they will need to find out what it is before it becomes a problem.

Saracen knows that it’ll be dark soon. They should camp, but the last two days Skulduggery has been pushing them to keep going well into the night. If Saracen didn’t know better, he’d suspect that Skulduggery didn’t like this quiet French forest. Saracen cranes his neck to stare up the tall waving trunks, and sees the curves of evening shadows on the scratched bark.

“What is actually the matter?” Hopeless asks.

“Huh?” Saracen says.

“He’s getting fat.” Anton says. Saracen looks at the broad back of the gist-user and scowls. Shudder is twice as broad as Saracen, and has no right to talk. Not even if he is entirely composed of muscle, as some people back in camp like to suggest.

“Hey!” he says.

Dexter snorts, and Saracen turns his largely ineffectual glare onto his once _trusted_ friend.

“Other than that,” Hopeless says. “Saracen?”

Saracen barely avoids another log, and scowls.

“Is there something _wrong_?” Hopeless asks, and the mirth dies. Which is a reason to be grateful but now they’re all looking his way.

Saracen sometimes regrets his pretence that he is omniscient. It lends him credence that is sometimes counterproductive, because this is just a feeling compounded with tiredness. But now Saracen’s friends are standing straighter and they’re no longer walking. Dexter’s hands are flat by his sides, palms turned away from his body. Hopeless has made no change to their stance but their hands are now near the shock-stick on their back. Erskine’s eyes are shining even in the dimming light.

“There’s something unnatural about this forest.” Skulduggery says.

Saracen nods slowly.

“Unnatural how?” Erskine asks flatly.

“You can’t feel it?” Saracen asks.

“I’m a simple elemental,” says Erskine Ravel, close friend to General Deuce and hero of the evacuation of Cork.

“Can you feel something, Anton?” Ghastly asks.

Anton grunts and nods sharply, and Erskine opens his mouth to say something to him, but then Anton turns to face them all. There’s a wildness in the man’s eyes that makes even Erskine hesitate.

“Is this something bad?” Dexter asks with a frown.

“It doesn’t feel good,” Saracen admits, relieved at the lack of scrutiny.

“Can we go around?” Larrikin whines. 

“We’re already in the forest. How do you go round something you’re already in?” Dexter says.

Larrikin shrugs.

“The sun’s just about set anyway,” Hopeless cuts them off from another segue. “And I don’t want to walk in the dark and ultimately brain myself on a tree.”

They all look at Skulduggery, whose head turns slightly as he notes the undivided attention.

“Personally I’m not worried about braining myself on a tree,” Skulduggery says. “But if you are all going to be weaklings I’ll take first watch.”

“I’ll stay up with you,” Ghastly says. “But let’s find higher ground first.”

What can they do? There’s something wrong with this forest, sure, but they’re in it now and need to cross it. The only thing they can do is keep guard, as they have done in every past mission. All they can do is be wary.

In the end they find a suitable spot on the rising slope of the forest. There’s a ring of trees that fade from importance when not viewed directly, despite the grand volumes of green leaves that create a visible wall. Within this ring is a cleared-out site perfect for camping. The floor is dry and not as uncomfortable as their last campsite by a slender stream. The single problem is that some old magic makes it easy to walk past, and so when Saracen leaves for a couple of minutes he finds himself walking in a confused circle, until Larrikin takes pity and calls attention again to their hiding place.

Dexter is already cooking. The others are setting up camp. Shudder is carving sigils onto the barks of the trees, where they can easily be erased when they leave. Hopeless and Erskine are setting out the bedrolls and talking quietly, so Saracen goes over to help Dexter. From time to time Skulduggery looks up from his conversation with Larrikin and Ghastly to gesture the smoke from the wood fire away from them and the sky. Dexter is cooking up a stew. Saracen has done this dozens of times, so he doesn’t ask questions, just starts chopping some of the greens and mushrooms he’d found when he’d left camp.

Night comes swiftly, and they don’t bother to smother the flames. The wood is thick enough the light doesn't carry far. It’s a cheerful occasion, somehow, and they sit in an oblong shape around the fire, leaning against trees or lying on bedrolls, waiting for the stew to cook so the potatoes fall apart and the rabbit becomes tender. This is how you survive; you enjoy yourself when you can. For sure, war is terrible and shattering and soul-destroying, but they get reprieves. It is these moments that cement the group; they wouldn’t be most successful suicide-mission group if they didn’t trust each other, or get along.

Saracen serves out the stew and passes six bowls around. Then he sits next to Dexter, with their backs to a tree, and on the other side of the fire Larrikin tries to cajole Skulduggery into singing. Before this Erskine had been Larrikin’s target; and he’d been creative in his attempts to get the man to play the violin. That was until Hopeless and Ghastly had taken him aside and mentioned that Skulduggery had been known for his singing voice. Even Augustus, Skulduggery’s wife and one of the least likely women to give a compliment after Ciara Oscuro, Ghastly’s mother, had been impressed by it.

Saracen knows that, while Augustus had been able to get Skulduggery to sing whenever she suggested it, Larrikin will not succeed. He does not have the benefit of being the single person Skulduggery was besotted with. If Ghastly asks the right way then Skulduggery might sing a lullaby, but Ghastly is much too amused by Larrikin’s nagging and Skulduggery’s irritation to attempt such a thing.

They’ve all settled into comfortable positions, even though they all have their eyes on the trees around them and hands close to any weapons they possess. So, when Hopeless jolts so abruptly that it seems they have been struck, everyone else reacts. Hopeless’ hands are buried in their short black hair and they are hunched over as if they have just used the worst of their powers. Erskine’s hand is immediately on their shoulder to stop them falling over. They’re trembling, eyes glazed over.

“What was that?” They say.

“What?” Saracen asks.

“That sound,” and because Hopeless knows that vagueness is not a virtue, they continue. “The drumming. It’s not there anymore, but … it was louder than anything I’ve ever heard.”

Saracen looks around. He has sprung to his feet, and Dexter now has his back to Saracen, an instinctive move they hadn’t thought about before completing. Saracen is directing most of his attention on Hopeless, who is wiping blood from their nose distractedly.

“Where did it come from?” Erskine asks.

“Everywhere,” they say. “You didn’t hear it?”

The only thing Saracen can hear is the thrumming of his pulse and Dexter’s sharp breaths. He doesn’t consider the possibility that Hopeless might be mistaken, that they might simply be hallucinating or experiencing some sort of backlash from their own magic. If Hopeless heard something, they heard something. Skulduggery, however, is not so easy to convince.

“Are you certain it was an external sound?” Skulduggery asks.

Hopeless snorts, “ _Yes_.”

Skulduggery and Anton walk out into thicket of trees. Dexter and Ghastly follow, but the rest of them stay. Larrikin’s hands are already cradling Hopeless’ head, healing whatever injury had caused their nose to bleed, and Erskine refuses to look at anyone, standing at Hopeless’ side. Saracen starts checking their sigils, in the off-chance that some sort of malfunction had caused an alert of greater strength than it should have. He’d lived long enough with Shudder before the war to understand the use of sigils, and had spent enough time around Larrikin at that same time to trust in his capacity for healing. Hopeless would be perfectly fine.

The others return after half an hour, having combed the area and found no hint of any stranger’s presence or magic. Erskine suggests leaving anyway but that gets voted down by the others. Hopeless doesn’t even protest, though they still seem a little shaken by whatever had happened.

No-one wants to sleep, so there is no watch. Everyone sits around the dying fire silently. It is hours after what had happened and Saracen is about to fall asleep on Dexter’s shoulder when Anton twitches.

“Erskine,” he says, then pauses, and if Saracen didn’t know better he’d think that Shudder was hesitating. “Who got you out?”

“What?” Erskine asks with a frown, as if he isn’t stalling.

“Who helped you escape from Serpine?” The man asks, and his voice is deliberately soft, which only makes things feel worse. That Shudder would feel the need to be gentle with another Dead Man only seems to exacerbate the feeling of wrongness. Shudder could be gentle, with refugees and children, those who needed it. A Dead Man had to be in a pretty bad way for Shudder to lose his gruffness.

But Erskine is in a bad way. Sure, he’s been laughing and acting normally, but Hopeless had whitened to a frightening degree when he’d first appeared, and had said nothing at all for days. For a fear-mage, who was used to seeing the darkest nightmares of those around them and capable of using this to their advantage, this reaction was enough to make Saracen feel sick to the stomach. Hopeless could shapeshift into the form of people who were dead, for God's sake, that they looked sick to hear their old friend’s fears told Saracen that Erskine was hiding more terrible and traumatic things than he’d revealed. The others had noticed this too, even the ones who didn’t know what magic Hopeless had. Saracen and Ghastly had to forcibly stop Dexter from leaving camp and attacking someone. It hadn’t helped that Hopeless looked ready to assist Dexter in the endeavour.

“Can we not do this right now?” Hopeless says, in a deliberately lazy fashion, as if they hadn’t winced the moment Anton had asked the question.

Saracen wishes Hopeless would just tell the others what they were. It’d be so much easier, if everyone knew, and then Hopeless wouldn’t be walking on eggshells. Their advice would seem more credible too, if the other Dead Men realised what their power was.

“We’re not going to get to sleep,” Ghastly says. “And this is something we need to talk about.”

Ghastly can speak for himself. Saracen’s eyes are half-shut despite the importance of this conversation. Dexter is going to kick him soon, probably, to wake him up. He’s already humming under his breath, as if that quiet tune will be enough to make Saracen stop leaning on him.

“I waited for you,” Erskine says, and Saracen’s eyes open properly as his stomach drops. “I waited for over a month, months, I don’t know. You said you’d come but you never did, and I waited and believed and … and people who never promised me anything were the ones who saved me. You could at least give me the benefit of not pushing on the one thing I don’t wish to talk about.”

The silence is now physically painful, and Erskine’s eyes are sharp and angry and he’s just about crying. Saracen wants to say something, anything, but he can’t. He hadn’t realised how long Erskine had been under Serpine’s power, simply because Erskine was always vague on the subject. Now he regrets his own stupidity. This makes sense, as does Hopeless’ behaviour. And they had let him down; to the worst possible degree that wasn’t genuine betrayal. 

Skulduggery stirs. “We should have tried harder to find you. I should … I’m sorry.”

Erskine stands quickly and leaves. His hands are shaking, but no-one else moves. Even Hopeless just watches him go with grey eyes. Larrikin puts his head in his hands, shoulders shaking, and Shudder puts a hand on his back. Dexter looks at them all; at their silence and shame. He shakes his head and follows Erskine. Saracen watches him go.

The humming doesn’t disappear. It’s right there, in Saracen’s ear, an ethereal, unnatural sound. It doesn’t change in pitch or volume even when Saracen shakes his head. He’s aware of a tingling sensation around him, and is now realising that Dexter had had nothing to do with it at all. Soon a drumming starts up, pounding in his ears along with his heartbeat, and Saracen gets to his feet. It’s louder than waves crashing on rocks, and closer. He can hardly hear anything over the rough and impossible sound.

“Can you hear that?” He says, and realises that he’s yelling. The others look at him with mixed expressions, of confusion, or worry, or realisation.

Something’s watching them, teasing them, using magic Saracen hasn’t seen in his centuries alive. He doesn’t know what it is and that scares him. Skulduggery is standing, putting a hand on his shoulder as he sways, and this time they’re going to find out what’s wrong.

A woman is singing. It’s a rising sound, and she isn’t singing in any of the languages Saracen knows. But it’s throaty and sad, with an eerie sense of age in every syllable. Saracen spins towards it but there’s nothing there, just trees that are dancing a little in the breeze …

What breeze?

Hopeless can hear it too. They’re standing, with a bleeding nose and eyes, as if turned to stone. Ghastly is shoving the bedrolls haphazardly into packs, and rushing to put the fire out and the others are arming themselves or grabbing the others’ weapons. Larrikin has pulled himself together and is watching them with eyes that widen with sudden realisation, and then he reaches out to touch one of the trees.

“We mean no harm,” he says, and more, in a form of French much older than what is spoken now. Saracen misses much of it, due to the difference in wording and grammar and sound and the rushing in his ears, but he does pick that up. Larrikin is apologising to trees, which is genuinely worrying because he must have flipped, and the sound is just getting harsher. Saracen’s face is burning, somehow, with the pain of the spell, and he can no longer see. Then he falls, only to be pulled onto his feet and dragged. He’s screaming, but he’s not sure how he started.

“Come on,” Skulduggery says, and Saracen is being passed to someone else. He feels the scratches of branches on his face and skin and the pain is lessening and he’s no longer screaming but Hopeless is. Larrikin’s voice is high and unnatural, chanting a mantra in a tongue no-one uses anymore. Then Saracen is out of the thicket, with his arm over Erskine’s shoulders and his vision clearing, and Anton half-directing half-pushing Larrikin and Hopeless out of the camp. Ghastly and the rest are guarding them, some with hands over their ears, and Erskine is saying Saracen’s name over and over.

They don’t stop moving, not even to heal Saracen and Hopeless. There is something arcane and dangerous about those trees and they want to get out and as far away as possible. Saracen keeps stumbling over logs and holes until Erskine sighs and picks him up and puts him over his shoulder. They’re all running, and they shan’t tell anyone about this because they’re running from trees. They could stand against the Diablerie, but when a circle of trees become malevolent even Anton runs. If Guild finds out he’ll laugh so much, and Saracen already struggles with not attacking him the man when he sees him.

“This is really embarrassing.” Saracen says. Erskine doesn’t ask whether he means his current position or the entire situation.

“It’s stopped,” Hopeless says, and so they do too.

Erskine puts Saracen on the ground again and he stumbles, and then Larrikin’s hands are on his cheeks and the residual pain is lessening and numbing. Then he moves on to Hopeless. It’s almost pitch black, with the sun well set. Skulduggery clicks his fingers so they can see.

“Those trees better not know how to walk,” Saracen says, rubbing his face and looking behind him. Erskine is standing beside him, hand on his shoulder to ensure he can catch him if he falls over.

“Trees?” Ghastly asks.

“What else?” Larrikin asks, from where he’s ensuring that Hopeless can stand. There’s something in his voice, an adrenaline-induced excitement, and Saracen is surprised that he isn’t jumping on the spot.

“Why do the only trees that try to communicate with us have a screw loose?” Saracen asks, voice cracking in the middle of the sentence. His throat burns. “Does that reflect on us?”

“What reflects on us is that we ran away,” Shudder says.

Larrikin is laughing as he darts amongst them, brushing hands on peoples’ hands or faces to ensure the spell hadn’t harmed anyone else. He's grinning, almost manically.

“Are you alright?” Dexter asks. “Larrikin, we were presumably just bested by trees. You’re not supposed to be happy about that.”

“They were singing, did you hear?” Larrikin asks. “I’ve not seen that for a long time.”

“I wouldn’t have called it singing,” Hopeless says softly.

“Who heard it?” Ghastly asks. “All I heard was pressure in my ears.”

Larrikin, Hopeless, Saracen and Anton wave their hands at Ghastly. Or, rather, Anton nods while infinitesimally moving his right hand, and the others wave.

“We should go back,” Shudder says.

“No,” Saracen says.

“They’ve made their point, let’s not,” Hopeless says at the same time.

“Yes please!” Larrikin exclaims, and he starts singing in an eerie replica of the woman’s voice.

Skulduggery shifts on his feet. “I agree with Anton. If we run away from trees no-one’ll ever look at us the same again.”

Saracen looks at all of them. Now that they’re out of the thicket they all seem steadier, and much more embarrassed. Only the ones who were directly affected are shaking their heads, with the exception of Larrikin and Anton because they’re insane.

“Have you seen this before?” Shudder asks Larrikin.

“Yes, long ago,” Larrikin says. “I was … in Ireland, actually. I thought they were all silent, now, the trees. I never worked out what they were. There were stories in my village that they used to be shapeshifters who’d tried to turn into trees but were unable to change back.”

Saracen notes Hopeless’ violent twitch and files the knowledge away.

“Are they always so…?” Saracen asks.

“Aggressive? Only when they don’t like you,” Larrikin says.

“I’m going to go out on a limb and suggest they probably don’t like us,” Erskine says with a wry smile.

They’re all silent for a moment, then Ghastly shrugs.

“We should probably keep going.” He says. “We need to be on the outskirts of the city in a couple of days.”

Saracen has to be honest; he wasn’t really listening during the briefing. So he doesn’t actually know which city they’re heading towards, though he knows their purpose. The eight of them are tasked with finding, retrieving and delivering the Book of Names somewhere. Just another mission with the expected outcome being death. Saracen wonders how they’ll survive this time.

Saracen wonders whether they will.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, if I misrepresented anything please let me know. 
> 
> Derek Landy owns all intellectual property rights and I am not laying claim to his characters or world. 
> 
> This work is unbetaed. All constructive criticism and feedback is welcome.


End file.
